Page 105 of Every Thought Taken

“What’s for dessert?”

“You,”I want to say, but don’t. Instead, I flip the lid open on the box and offer him a look inside. “Chocolate-covered fruit.”

He plucks a chocolate-covered strawberry from the box, takes a bite, and moans at the taste.

Maybe I should have given this idea more thought because,damn.The plan wasn’t to torture myself. But with every move I make, he counters it in a way I didn’t consider. Every touch, every taste, every hungry glance, every time he pulls away… it is exquisite agony.

Pressing play on the remote, he yanks the throw blanket off the back of the couch and tosses it over our legs. I bite a chocolate-covered pineapple slice as I lean into Anderson’s side. Rest my head on his shoulder as the movie plays on the screen. Then, I call on some higher power to give me strength.

Strength to get through this movie. Strength to ask for what I want when the credits roll up the screen. And strength to strip his clothes off as we trip down the hall toward the bedroom, lips locked and bodies eager for more than sleep.

CHAPTER58

ANDERSON

Since walking through the front door tonight, Helena has thrown one hint after another. Hints that she is ready for us to take the next step. That she wants more. It’s driven me mad with need.

But I’ve also enjoyed torturing her at every turn. Dragging out the night and delivering sweet affliction.

My lips and tongue and teeth on her skin. My hands on her cheeks, in her hair, on her curves. Her jagged breaths, her warm skin on mine, her quiet whimpers as she wordlessly begs for more.

Oblivious, I am not. The more upscale dinner, the wine, those damn leggings paired with that relaxed top exposing her neck and skin… If that top was the only one she owned, I’d die a happy man.

When I bent and kissed her near the table, my lips on her skin lit a fire in my groin. Going against instinct, I fought the urge to skip dinner. I fought the urge to strip her bare, set her on the kitchen counter, and feast on her instead.

She planned a nice evening, and as much as I wanted to skip it all, as much as I wanted to drag her to the bedroom, I refused to ruin it.

For weeks, I’ve toed the line with my feelings, with my desires. I want the next step. I want to start my future with her. But in the same breath, I want to take my time. Savor the small moments. Create new memories with her. Memories like a romantic dinner, movie, and dessert with the woman I love.

Sex is powerful. Carnal. Natural. It connects people in an unparalleled way. Bonds them for life. And it can be the turning point in any relationship.

But love, devotion, undiluted passion between lovers… nothing is more heady. Euphoric. Enthralling. It not only fuses them for life, but it also changes how they see the world. Every experience means more because they have each other.

It’s been far too long since my bare body molded to hers. Since I sank into the cradle of her hips and bracketed her head with my arms. Since I rocked my hips and pushed inside her, her back bowing off the mattress as her lips parted on a gasp. It’s been far too long, but I never forgot a single moment we spent together.

Desperate as I am to experience physical intimacy with her again, the idea of taking that step and losing her has me resistant. Desperate as I am to have more of her, to keep her forever, I need more. I need her actionsandwords. I need promises to spill from her lips and take root in my marrow. Need reassurance that she won’t break me. Never again.

Simple as it sounds, what I need is layered with so much complexity.

The end credits scroll up on the screen. I stretch for the remote and turn off the television, blanketing us in darkness. Neither of us moves as our jagged breaths fill the silence. My heart rattles my rib cage—pound, pound, poundingagainst its prison walls.

And then her knuckles graze the top of my hand, like silent permission to speak, to move, to leave this couch and escape to the bedroom.

“Ander…” My name rolls off her tongue, so soft, so sweet. A litany. A plea. An invitation.

Still curled in the blanket, I slide Smoky off my lap. I turn over my hand beneath Helena’s, lace our fingers, and rise from the couch. Anxiety twists my stomach as I guide us through the apartment toward the bedroom, toward her bed, toward the next step.

Audible breaths bounce off the walls as we enter the room. A current charging the air, the buzz licking my skin and making me hyperaware. Of her, of us, of what comes next. Every hiccup or catch of her breath, every twitch of her fingers in my grip, every shuffled or stumbled step forward, I pick up all of it.

And damn, I love that this moment, this next step, is just as significant for her as it is for me.

I bump the foot of the bed and twist us so we face each other. Take her other hand in mine and step into her. Kiss her crown, her forehead, one temple, followed by the other. With each press of my lips, with each kiss that brings me closer to her lips, her chest rises and falls faster. And when our lips finally meet, she melts under the contact.

Untangling our fingers, I clasp her hips and give a gentle squeeze. I lick the seam of her lips and tangle my tongue with hers when she lets me in. My fingers dance up the sides of her body, grazing the edges of her breasts, skimming the ridges of her collarbones, caressing the length of her neck. She lets out a soft whimper and reaches for my shirt.

Framing her face in my hands, I tilt her head and deepen the kiss. Swallow the moan that spills from her lips and lands on my tongue. Inch impossibly closer as the amorous kiss morphs into something headier. Potent. Explosive.

I tear my lips from hers. “Tell me you want this.”

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